13 de marzo de 2009
From Myanmar to Macau

Myamar's Bagan and Inlay still linger in my mind. By the river in Vang Veng in Laos, we decided to give us a try. Will you be my Valentine's. Scam the scammers in Vietnam. Laughed out loud in frnot of slots in Macau.
A month from Myanmar to Macau, we traveled within and without.
Where shall we go from here? Again we walk. Together we walk.

5 de deciembre de 2008
Poetry and Painting

Kids' poems are how awesome!
A little verse by Dorothy.
---
Good is fish and chips
Better is crisps
Best is God
---
(another one by this little girl)
Fat is the doll
Fatter is the pig
Fattest is Miss Dora
----
This one by Britney
---
Yucky is mushroom
Yuckier is octopus
Yuckiest is squid
...
Me: Britney, you don't like squid and octopus?
B: (with a look full of despise) I love ice-lolly most but mom never gives that to me. I love to ice-skate most and I just can do that once a year.
Me: Britney, welcome to the world.
B: (frowning) What do you mean?
Me: Kid, in this world, you don't often get what you want.
B: (sort of cannot believe) Really?
Me: Yes, sometimes you just cannot have what you want. If I get to do what I want, you know, I would just paint and paint and paint.
B: (looking very innocent, and with a big smile) Miss Dora, I don't need you to teach me English. You can just paint here and I will be happy to let you paint here.

That's precisely what keeps me stay with them, kiddos. It's your generosity. It's your innocence. It's your simplicity that keeps me wanting to stay with you kids. Thanks for just making it sound so simple. The fact it: why shouldn't it be simple? Miss Dora, you can simply paint. We don't often allow kids to do what they want. We think we know what's the best for them. But on the contrary, they offer a lot of freedom for us. Thanks gal, for just saying, "Miss Dora, you can just paint here."
If everything - living, life, leisure - thrown out of the window, two things remain -- things that I would do, just do: writing mystic stuffs and painting poetic images.

02 de deciembre de 2008
Mulling Mulled Wine Over

I took your time, I said. I would just take your time, even not without a sense of uneasiness. You remained quiet most of the time. I had no clue what you're pondering, but just talked my heart out in spite of you.
You said. I will tell you enough time how beautiful and valued you're, until you don't need me anymore. There and then, you will have all of me.
I mulled over things you said, in Pacific Coffee overlooking the panaromic Victoria Harbour at the peak. The air was crisp; not so hazy; and a chilly breeze entered my body and went down my spine with delight. Life I don't know how to plan, but if that's what I am not capable of; then I live.
My friend sat next to me, telling me his little anecdotes from Cebu, where I overlooked the city, my city, and said, "Aren't we lucky, to live in one of the most beautiful cities on earth?"
The way home is lengthy; so is the way called healing. I told him, he's healed me much. I know it by truth.
As we trotted our way down the peak, I spotted the crescent in the twilight, accompanied by two shiny stars, and a reddish orange setting sun. Isn't it beautful? What do you want more than that?
In roughly a month or more or less, you will swing to this side of the planet again. This universe has been, alas, incredibly kind to me this period of my life. So kind. I marvel at how we can strike the harmonies for the fourth times in a year and half. As I read Henri, I listened to my inner pain and fears. There amidst my fears I open my arms to welcome something that's simply called life. And I realize spirituality isn't something aloof, has little to do with church, or may be totally mistaken by me (and will continously be); spirituality may afterall the flip side of the coin called humanity. In my human condition, I spot divine aura. In drinking mulled wine, I have a cuddle of the cradle of the manger. In breathing, I sense I am not that far from dying. In dying, I find a life being born again.

28 de noviembre de 2008
Thanksgivingp>

Sweetheart, Happy Thanksgiving.
2008 darts so fast. Eleven months have nearly eclipsed; yet one thing has remained rather constantly all these times. A thankful heart.
That tops my thanksgiving list -- a thankful heart. I know it's not my natural disposition, and that's why I need to be grateful for.
Who knows where the time goes. I savor each minute, I hope, with a desparate joy, fully taking each morsel of life and really take it, be grateful for it, enjoy it.
As I did my first abstract oil painting yesterday I splashed patches of images here and there. I know somehow my life is like that -- lots of patches, rather flamboyant.
In the little lounge I sang out loud, "We are all African", twisting my body like a boa constrictor. The SA singer said to the crowd, "Where are you from? She's not stopped dancing and singing." I with a big smile was invited to the stage, given a CD, and sang, "We are all African."
We are all, afterall, the same. African, Asian, European, American. As people got slaughtered in Mumbai, Thailand airport was paralysed, the world in its frenzy of a so-called Tsunami, I say a prayer, rather cliche, "Let's love each other."

23 de noviembre
November 23 of 1992

Early this year, I have thrown away seven diaries -- that covered my life from aged 11 to 30.
While tidying my stuff up today, I discovered 2 journal entries that were left, unburnt. Written 16 years ago. Only memories that secretly remain.
Exactly same day, 16 years ago, when I was 16.
I wrote:
"I could not not accept fate.
This time, my brother really had to go to prison.
There was no return. He had to face darkness and fear, and a strong cell.
While my sister visited him, she saw lots of scars on his face. The police said when he was caught, he was banging his head against the wall and frentically scratched his face. All sufferings and pain of that could not lesson his inner pain.
I want to scream. But I cannot. The one who should scream shouldn't really be me. Mom was numbing herself with alcohol and tears. Sister was facing loads of emotional and financial pressure, weeping in the bunk bed beneath me. Dad was complaining incessantly and screaming. Other sister kept asking and asking and asking that drives people crazy.
In many's eyes, I should be the least affected. All I have to do is to study. There's little I can help. I should be lucky. But do you know, when you see people suffer and you cannot do anything, it's extremely excruciating. I don't know how to help. I don't know how to share the burden. I don't know how to comfort. I keep myself survive in a choatic world.
I really hope this darkness will soon depart us."

16 years passed. The words were the only memories that I allowed to slip through my fingers. God, you have heard my silent cry. You have. Today, when I held the Lora Piana T-shirt, I kept it for you, my brother. You asked me why I didn't give to Tony, the second brother. I didn't say anything. You know, I have always loved you. I never told you how much it hurt when you went to the prison. I never told you how happy I am to see you know, a father with two kids, a father whom I respect very much. I secretly want to love you. Darkness has departed indeed. I was 16 then. When I lived half of my life. 16 years were gone.
I know, all the years, when I secretly kept all my pain, God, even long before I proclaimed you, You have loved me in my suffering.

21 de noviembre
Thanksgiving Dinner

I have a sumptuous Thanksgiving feast. No turkey, no pumpkin pie, no guests even, but I have a huge round table piled with gratitude. When taking the bus home, I could not help preaching to my own soul. You have found a great gift of life -- called gratitude.
Thank you for the sharing yesterday.
What you said towards the end of the conversation, with laugh carrying a little cynicism within, and the trust that I've been given as a friend worthy of listening... all keep me very grateful.
My friend, I really am not sure if I could understand your sentiments and words, let alone to say anything smart in respond. But my friend, thank you for letting me there to witness. Witness a person going through life, just like me. Witness someone who genuinely loves life, and loves people, and precisely because of that, life appears to be an unbearable joy. Sometimes I think really we cannot read into another soul. Yet, when we look into ourselves, it gives insights to others' feelings. We're not that different. The more I look at myself, the more I am able to look at others.
I am so thankful. Words really do nothing to tell. The beauty in you lies in the very hidden pain. It's because you can love so deeply, that you can ache so badly. But I think the level we can cut ourselves is also ironically the level we can love ourselves.
Thank you for walking with me, my fellow pilgrim. In the midst of the toil of laboring on the hilly paths, under scorching heat, (or hailstones), wrestling spiritually even, I know there's always an albergue ahead to rest a little, a good pilgrim meal to look forward to, a friend who's burn like me to sit with, hold hands, share life. There's always a cathedral to marvel at, a lot of uncertainty to entertain with. More, there are a lot of pilgrims who trot with different reasons and even desparation... for a Santiago which we don't even quite know and understand.
Aren't we lucky my friend?
You're very very beautiful. I don't know how many times I can say it. I think God's extremely kind to me, revealing so much of His beauty and love through a tangible person. You know, I think that's why I stick to Christianity somehow. In Christ I see to have a glimpse of the human understanding of love. Now better, in a person with flesh and soul, in you, I have another level of understanding. What love can be like. And what refraining from love can also be like. What "light" can be like. What "darkness" can be like. And it's in darkness that light seems more prominent. It's in moments like last conversation I have a deep glimpse of your inner goodness and beauty. Not only in the perfect joyful sociable uplifting moments can I see beauty. It's in the downtrodden painful isolated and desperate moments I see the beauty. I see that in me. I see that in you. I see that in my dear fellows in this world that can be do damn difficult and wonderful.
At a short stay in the Augustinian monastery, one afternoon I sat with a 24-year-old nun called Patricia. A babbly and lively party girl-turned nun from Madrid. She said to me outside a small musuem in a forgotten village, "Dora, you know girasol? (later learn it's sunflower). Sometimes I feel like a girasol, facing the sun. But night falls everyday. I look down. As I rest and feel desparate, I remind myself the sun will always come up again."
The most charming moment, I often find, is sunrise, not sunset. In the deepest darkness, when light does shine through, it's so damn beautiful. Ankor Wat's sunrise is very stunning. I hope you would enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed it. It is a great wait in darkness, in freezing arms, for the first beam.
I wish you all well. I remember when I asked you first time what you want for your life, you said, "Happiness." Never have I ceased to ask God to give you that. I hope you see that you yourself is the very manifestation of it. With you, that's how I have always felt--immensely happy. What you want is a gift you've always given to others.

20 de noviembre
與君一席話勝讀書十年

Met T today. Finally. Amidst many things we shared (well, he listened; I talked most of the time), one thing he said, as we strolled in the verdant campus in gentle autumn sunbeam, "Dora, you seem to see your questions with a deep sense of guilt and fear, and perhaps there are deep wounds in life that still require lots of healing. But how deep you can go spiritually is indeed a very special gift of God."
Got a letter from Q, my friend in Barcelona. A little surprise. He's the friend I met in Taize, my little brother. Now, he's quit his Engineering program and am studying Chinese and German translation and interpretation. Life is interesting, I think. A life path can be very much diverted by a stranger who happened to run into you in a no name village. Very glad to hear from him after a long time of absence.
Talking about influence. Other days I was reading a story to Britney, 7-year-old. I first started tutoring her when she's 4. I was reading a story called "Finn and the Fairies" in which Finn did not believe in fairies. I asked, "Britney, do you believe in fairies?" She shook her head, "No, but I believe in one fairy." I asked, "Which one? (thinking she meant a rainbow fairy as she's really into a series called Rainbow fairies). She said, "I just believe in a tooth fairy, not other fairies." I asked her, "Why?" Then she reminded me, "Miss Dora, three years ago, you helped me to write a letter to the tooth fairy and she wrote me a reply. So I always believe in that tooth fairy." She said with confidence.
Of course, the tooth fairy was "me." I did remember. We wrote a letter to the tooth fairy (Britney lost her first tooth really early). To make the things very "real" that she won't think it's written by me, I sent a return envelope, with Britney address, a handwritten letter from "tooth fairy" (me of course), and an instruction on how to protect your teeth (curtesy of Oral B) to my friend living in the UK to mail it back to Britney. So in Britney's heart, her tooth fairy lives in England.
I smiled in my heart when Britney said that. I kept my tongue not to tell her the truth. What's truth? Should I tell her, "Britney, tooth fairies don't exist. Miss Dora lied to you?" Or the truth is: Tooth Fairy does exist. She's a human in disguise.
In a spiritual level, can I venture to say. Christ is human in disguise? Does He really exist? Perhaps he does. The guy making espresso in Starbucks; the president-elect; the you, the me? Is he more real than the tooth fairy. Or am I making "tooth fairy" real by my choosing to act on that behalf? Or is there absolute objective truth? Or truth is?
Anyways, back to business. Laos. Been reading. Meanwhile, I have for now (will be more later) ONE request regarding our coming journey. Can we go to a really nice French restaurant in Vietnam to celebrate your birthday? That's my FIRST and (what I can percieve by far) most demanding request. I hope you won't ban this.

10 de novembre
Die

I let myself die, within.
Don't mourn for me.
Prepare instead balloons,
gift packages, a cake,
for a birthday is to come.
You often hate me talking about death
For you don't know how intensely I wish to live
I let the blood drain till the last drop
Then I will fill it up with water
Turquoise like a morraine lake
I know the result indeed
I knew it long time ago
as sure as the existence of Michaelangelo
Do you believe that I know
I put myself in a parcel
throw it to a cargo ship
sail across the vast oceans
until a gail kicks me overboard
There I will be redeemed
At a snap of fingers the most
precious thing becomes the most insignficant
That's how I wish to live my life
to the fullest yet without clinging
when it's time to return to the soil
I will bow till my back breaks
Till my forehead touches the ground
Till I mingle with the soil
That your eyes cannot tell a difference
between my ashes and the dust of this earth
Till I go back to where I belong

5 de novembre
What's Wrong?

Time passes. Life presses. Lots of thoughts and action. Cannot write too much. But thankful. Thankful for my own existence.

28 de octobre
What's Wrong?

At 1-ish, I walked out of my room. Mom was having her lunch, watching TV. She peeked at me and asked, "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
I stared back, and realized perhaps my face was so full of sorrows. Last time she would ask me in such certain look was when I lost my love.
I shook my head, swinging off the sorrows. I didn't know how to reply to her. Nothing happened. I was just writing my novel, and the main character was experiencing the pain of a stranger. The pain of the stranger, a Croatian soldier, was so intense that the protagonist broke down. I wrote that part, and my heart trembled and I found my eyes welled up with tears.
Then I walked out of my room to get some water. Mom caught me and was shocked by my look.
Nothing mom. I didn't know how to tell her I'm writing a novel. She has never read a book in her life, never been to school. But you know, mom, I finally find something within.
After work, I stayed at a coffee shop continue to labor, to let the protagonist to take me wherever she wants in the novel.
Many a times I am taken by surprise -- how my emotions go up and down with every line I write. That's the greatest joy of writing and main reason why I write: it's like... being invaded by another self. There I lose myself. And when I lose myself, I find myself again.
I need to finish this novel. Not for anyone. Not for publishing. Not for telling you a story. It's the only way I redeem myself. It's a redemption.
After two hours of gentle work, I left Habitu, still with the aroma of caffe vienness lingering in my mouth. The cream was a little too heavy. Next time I would try one of their cocktails. Timesquare was flooded with onlookers as usual yet I immuned by their invasion. A little bubble wrapped me up -- the story. I was filled with a sense of sweetness within. I recalled the little episodes I did in the coffee shop and felt as if I was accompanied by a good friend, someone who knows me so well and whom I know well. Like Weronika in Poland and Veronique in France in a movie I love -- I find me my own double. Never alone I am.

23 de octobre
Miraculous Days Eight and Nine

The face of hers was beaming with joy. True joy I could tell. "Miss Dora, I am preparing a surprise party for daddy! It's his birthday tomorrow," said my student. For these past couple months, I have seen her suffer deeply from the separation of her parents. Yesterday, she told me about the cake, the gifts and who would be there.
I know where the joy comes from. It's from the fact that both daddy and mommy would be at the party together. That's the dream of a complete family. Everything returns to the past. That's the joy of an almost shattered hope, gently held by the little hands of a 7-year-old.
I am truly happy for you my girl. Yet, I am also truly worry for you. What future beholds? Will another dream shatter? I smile, giving my best wishes to you for a happy party. I harbour in my heart a little voice, echoing yours my girl. I am proud of you, my 7-year-old, for how you dare to dream. The greatest fear in one's pursuit in dreams is the realization that the dreams can actually come true. Your teacher me often recoils from going all-out for dreams. I fear. I don't fear failure. I think I fear success and intensity of happiness more than failure. I have befriended it somehow. But I don't know how to love happiness. How to love love. How to love possession. How to love reality. How to love goodness.
Instead, I plummet into fears, failure, and imagination, and most oftentimes abandonment. Abandoning others and myself, let alone my dreams.
As I left her apartment, after my lesson, I waited at the bus stop. The sky has darkened earlier as winter is looming closer. The economy gives people glim faces. Why we bother? I opened the gift of another student's mum. A very beautiful hair-band, embedded with crystals. It's from a shop from Paris in one of those upmarket malls which I rarely patron, if ever. I never would spend couple hundred dollars on a hair band. God does pamper me. He knows I am too frugal to check in a 5-star hotel, to watch a show that could be my week's expenditure, to have a crystal hair band, so He simply brought them to me through other people.
I printed my novel (unfinished) out, Butterfly Redeemed, and my children's story, Rainbow Tree House. My genes -- writing genes -- are operating again.
I try to search hard within and without what on earth in my life that I really never want to depart from. It's books, I guess. So I return to the library, to Dostoyevsky, to Coelho, to the Koran, to the Bible, to all kinds of literature; I return as well to my own writing. It's there I feel safe and loved, understood and embraced; I feel a sense of deep acceptance from an old friend who says he'd never depart from loving me, a little meaning of my existence.
I wrote on my little print out -- as an encouragement for me to write -- "For all I fail to experience in reality, I resort to their stories, and my own."
"Have you published?"
"Are you still writing?"
Two people who've made an impact to my life years ago, and whom I have left for years, asked these questions, when they first reconnected with me again, tolling a bell silent all these days. "Dora, perhaps, really, you have really loved words. Don't give up on them. Don't give up on yourself." I am not afraid of failure and sadness and solitude. It's success, happiness and company that I fret about. Time to dive. Dive into what I fear most.

17 de octobre
Miraculous Day Four

I walked around the woods.
Opening my eyes, I think perhaps the greatest miracle of all is the universe itself.

17 de octobre
Miraculous Day Three

Miracles.
Sometimes I force it, and it does not happen.
Sometimes I does not force it, and it does not happen.
Sometimes I force it, and it does happen.
Sometimes I does not force it, and it happens.
Which one really can be dubbed miracles. Of course, I opt for the lattest one. It's not something we can force yet it miraculously happen. However, life is really in many ways are a combination of the Divine hands and our hands. Perhaps they are not opposite. Fate and force -- are good friends.
"Diga!" he said, same gentle tone.
"Manuel! It's me, Dora!" I said.
He then switched to English from Spanish, and asked a few questions, unexcited at all. I felt a little strange to call this 70-year-old friend I met in the library in a monastery in Valladolid 2 years ago. He asked how I was. I said, "Well, I am still tutoring in Hong Kong..."
"Hong Kong?" and then his tone turned into enthusiasm, "Dora, you are Dora!? Dora from Hong Kong?!"
"Yes," I replied.
He's mistaken me from someone in town or from the States. Because of WWII and economic depression, he moved to the States for 50 years, and spent his final years in southern Spain.
"I deserve to be shot," he chuckled, and promised me he'd write.
"Manuel, I have not forgotten all you have taught me in the library," I said, and I wanted to tell him because I didn't want to commit "self-betrayal" I have embarked this journey of searching my self which has left me quite disoriented.
But he didn't want me to spend too much money on the phone. Instead, he said he'd write. "Dora, remember, you always have a little room in my heart."
Summer of 2007 was a miracle. It was a miracle. And how can we listen to the calling of the miraculous Universe and continue to believe in it. That's another matter.

15 de octobre
Miraculous Day Two

In the evening, a little gift from my friend: A night spent in the Venetians, plus the show Zaia by Cirque du Soleil! God knows what a miser I am and I would never spend that money to pamper myself. But yeah!! Now it comes like a gift. Daddy, thank you!

14 de octobre
21 Miracles

This morning, sitting in solitude in the chapel I asked for 21 miracles for 21 days. Each day, at least to see His miracle once. Each day, to be romanced by Him. Each day, to feel loved.
With my little notes jotted down on the journel, I took off my shoes, but my bare feet on the pad, rest on the pew, got ready to turn off the radio on the cell phone. It's RTHK 4, classical music.
Just seconds before I turned it off, I heard a strange introduction of a book. Classical music station rarely talks about books. It's from a book called "Today's The Best Day."
I felt a little strange, and wanted to listen.
End of the 2-minute talk of the DJ, I found myself covered by tears.
My first miracle.
Dad, you know how sorrowful I have been, lost I feel, agonizing life seems to be.
There from a non-religious program, a music program came the words (can't remember verbatim). Something like:
"The sun is still there, even it's covered by clouds...your anchor is still there, even you're in a big storm... your next step is certain, even you're in the fog... your life is strongly held by the hands of God..."
The reading from that book lasts very short, but every single word pierces into my heart. I sit there, overwhelmed by a deep sense of touch by God. I may never figure out how that reading comes by, one thing I know... however messed up I feel I am, God's still there holding me strongly.
Miracles do not come merely by sitting around, though today I realize they do come as the Divine hand wills it. But there's another one that causes me to wail in tears again.
At noon, out of the blue, I typed in Google, "Vancouver, time", and I found out it's around 9-ish in the evening in that city. I then took out my address book, and called my very best friend when I was living in Vancouver, a woman I have long lost touch, whom I lament on her disappearance.
I dialled the number, with no expectance that it would work. Letters have been rebounched; emails as well; and phone I tried before.
It rang for almost a minute and I heard a "hello".
Trust me, I ran out of words. It took me couple seconds to calm down and said, "Could I talk to Kina?"
Familiar accent, same gentleness and love, I heard from her. "It's Dora!"
I was covered by tears and could hardly talk. "I MISS you my friend and I am so so so happy that I am talking to you."
We talked. We talked.
When I finished work this evening, going home in the green mini-bus, I caught myself smiling at air. Smiling because I could not tell you how happy I am to know that you, my friend, is married and is deeply loved and taken care of. I begin to understand why all moms wish their daughters to marry off well. When I know my good friend is so deeply loved, finally after all years are wounds and sorrows, that she's now married for two years and working happily in a profession she feels meant to be in, I can only say, "I am so happy for you."
Miracles come. I have been taken by surprise by couple of them today. And I am looking forward to the next 20 days, adventurous ones that I will be overwhelmed by more and more miraculous romance by God. You're faithful, even when I am not.

12 de octobre
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Nearly 3am in the morning, again I could not sleep. Instead of tossing and turning in bed, I climb out of it, turn on the laptop and google "The Love Song, Alfred". Last time I read it, was a decade ago, in one final course of my degree on contemprorary poetry.
I am afraid to admit; it's very comforting to hear Prufrock, indeed. It's even embarrassing to admit. It's embarrassing to admit, the restlessness of this guy in hair-splitting his life, marching almost impossibly in the labyrinth of self-imposed monologue in mind is what I have been struggling as well.
To make it slightly less embarrassing, I wish to say, perhaps, just perhaps, the poet T.S. Eliot was not exempted from this -- this being an unbearable quest for existence, of being relevant, of sorting that question out. I hope, just hope, I am indeed in good company. If a great poet can struggle as such, I am not that bad.
Streets that follow like a tedious argument/ Of insidious intent/ To lead you to an overwhelming question . . ./ Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"/ Let us go and make our visit.
Eliot, Prufrock -- are we indeed sharing that question together? I hope we are. I hope somewhere in this universe, there's a voice resonating mine. Telling me, yes, this overwhelming question that you're rolling upon is not only for me, but you and me.
In the room the women come and go/ Talking of Michelangelo.
Eliot, Prufrock... I guess you know how terrible it's when one feels totally out of place. I was at a party, surrounded by women, in China Club, nibbling on the delicate food, wondering does it matter? What they talk about -- does it matter? Really not.
There will be time, there will be time/ To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;/ There will be time to murder and create,
You so know the face? The face prepared to meet the thousand of faces out there. A time to murder and create -- for the sake of getting that face to deal with the other faces. What am I? I wonder. Am I really what I have portrayed? Have I murdered me? Or is it a brain-new creation?
Time for you and time for me,/ And time yet for a hundred indecisions,/ And for a hundred visions and revisions,/ Before the taking of a toast and tea.
Eliot, is it an excuse? To wrap things us and paste a label upon, "There is time for." The moaning and groaning and indecisions -- are they neccessary. A toast and a tea, when will the time ceases?
And indeed there will be time/ To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

This question, "Do I dare?" perhaps is the most comforting voice in this poem.
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons/
Just a smile of recognition. Dora, you, you have done so as well.
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, / I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;/ I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,/ And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,/ And in short, I was afraid.
I too am afraid, Eliot. I too am afraid, Prufrock. I tried that too, wept, fasted, wept, prayed, and almost realized I was and am and will be no John the Baptist, who prepared the road of the Lord. I tried to put my head on the platter, but I am no prophet. No.
And would it have been worth it, after all,/ After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,/ Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,/ Would it have been worth while,/ To have bitten off the matter with a smile,/ To have squeezed the universe into a ball/ To roll it toward some overwhelming question,/ To say: "I am Lazarus, (7) come from the dead/ Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--/ If one, settling a pillow by her head,/ Should say: "That is not what I meant at all./ That is not it, at all."
"I am Lazarus," I too have once said. But that's not what I meant at all. Not I meant at all.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?/ I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
Shall I paint my nails? Shall I cut my hair? Shall I move out? Shall I take one more kid? Shall I make the call? Shall I buy the cellphone? Shall I? Shall I...? It is almost paralyzing me.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each./ I do not think that they will sing to me./ I have seen them riding seaward on the waves/ Combing the white hair of the waves blown back/ When the wind blows the water white and black./ We have lingered in the chambers of the sea/ By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown/ Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
A deep breath. A long and deep breath. I have heard the mermaids sing. Many indeed. Around. They do sing. But they don't sing for me. Don't sing for me. Till human voices wake us, and we drown. A deep breath.

It's not a love song. Not what you expect in what you call "love song." But it is a LOVE song. A love song in the sense of a man so striving for the meaning of love for oneself. And the love for a universe around, or dubbed God.
Do I dare/ Disturb the universe?
Do I dare to disturb the universe? I ask myself. The universe -- the universe. By my little existence, do I dare to disturb the universe. Or I play this subserviant role. Not dare. Not dare. Let the universe eclipses a little soul -- quietly I let myself drown?


A visit to prison



Now, I don't get to go to prison often. Brothers, when I see you, I am ashamed of my incapability of living in the grace I claim to have. You all radiate more joy and peace and love than I wish I could. I know in my heart, yet I say I don't know, why you, having been kept behind bars for over two decades, all seem to be so full of joy.
You probably yearn for my life, full of freedom. But I tell you the truth: you're freer than I do. Spiritually you guys sour in the sky. No bars trap your mind. Your liberation comes from the amazing love you experience in God. I know that to be truth. If you have no freedom, no family with you, no partner, no car, no value and even acceptance from society can so sing and smile, I think it has to be solely from what most people ignore. Namely, God.
While munching on my gnocci, I told Claire, "You know, I think I cannot call myself Christian indeed." She comforts me and shares the grace of Gospel with me again. When will I let it sink? When will I stop seeking my love elsewhere? God, will you hear me indeed? Indeed, I mean. Indeed.
"What is the thing you currently really want to have that money cannot buy?" I ask myself.
"A sense that I am okay," I reply.
Yes, I am okay. With my blemishes, my fraility, my indecisiveness, my wandering, that there will be a smile and a nod and even embracing arms and a gentle voice: "My child, you're okay. In my eyes, you're indeed okay."

9 de octobre
I am so sad

My kid, I know you're very sad. Who wants to have daddy and mummy separate? No one wants that, my kid. I am sorry I cannot do anything about. I can only tell you it's okay to be sad.
If I were your parents, what would I do? Kiddo, I were not them, and I could not speak for any of them. Thanks for sharing with me what you would do when you're sad.
From my 7-year-old student.
I am so sad that I want to go to the loo, sob for 100 years, jump into the sea, dance like crazy, jump out of the world, sit in a playroom....
You asked, "Why am I so unlucky?"
My kid, this is a question too difficult to answer. Philosphers, theologians, thinkers have tried centuries, or even milleniums to tackle, but to no avail.

5 de octobre
Chuckles

Out of curiosity rather than need or any other intention, I asked, "Have you thought of marrying me?"
Perhaps deep inside I know you have because it's a question that I wondered long, since the first time I parted you.
"Lots," you said.
I know and knew that to be true. Also, I know that it has nothing to do with any actual action. You asked me, what that meant for you. I said, "It's hard to believe anyone actually wants to marry me." "Why not?"
"Life cannot be that good." It's truth saying from within; true, what we percieve life and life greets us that.
My friend, thanks for even thinking that. I am thankful for a friend like you, you know. Honored even that you would even wonder what partnership with me would be like. Such transparency two people can share is perhaps what friendship takes us. Couples may not enjoy such candid conversation.
I told you, I believe, wilfully think, "You are the most committed person I would ever know." You chuckle, and you laugh. True, track records may show otherwise. But I think deep inside I know, and trust that to be truth. It's nothing to do with promise, with vow, with paper or anything. Deep inside I know, you're just such a person.

5 de octobre
Do you hear the people sing?

Do you hear the people sing?
Singing a song of angry men?
It is the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again!
When the beating of your heart
Echoes the beating of the drums
There is a life about to start
When tomorrow comes!

Yes, my heart echoes with the beating of drum. A revolution deep within, a personal revolution, a crying out of an angry person. Let blood shed and water the meadows of the soul of a nation or an individual. I love France for her bloody history, far more than Chanel, Dior, Eiffel Tower or its romance.
Everyone perhaps deep inside has this song. A cry-out. A scream. Not to be enslaved. Desiring so much to be free. Let see what God has in store for us indeed. Who is He? What is freedom? When everyone is desparate to portray Him as Allah, Jehovah, the High Power, God, Christ, Buddha, a rock, I take out my palette knife and brushes and get crazy on the canvases.

28 de septiembre
You are so strange

"You are so strange."
"So are you."
"Perhaps because of that, we got to play for a long time."

"It's like shedding skin. Like a snake. It's a painful process. But afterwards, there's always new life."
"I agree."
"You should be glad that I have broken down so many times in front of you. I don't trust people easily to allow myself to fall apart."
"(laugh) Yeah, you have broken down so many times."
"(worrily) True. When there are a pair of arms wrapping around me, I feel it's okay to shatter. At least I know I won't lose all my pieces and somehow I can resemble myself again. I know in life rarely does one get to find those safe arms around. Once I find them, I let myself fall apart."

"Thanks for calling."
"You know, I call because I need to prove to myself I trust what you told me. To trust that you meant what you said."
"I know."
"You know how easy for me to wipe out people's words and not take their face value."
"You're extremely good at it."
"Is it a compliment or what?"
"(laugh)".
"I know, that's why I learn."

"If there is one thing I should do, or I feel missing in life, is a four letter word."
"What is it?"
"PLAY."
"You learn by practising."
"Eh?"
"You learn playing by playing."

"You know, when I look at my scars and think of my past love, I can still genuinely tell myself, "I think I have really loved them." I have confidence to love you."
"How."
"I know, one day, whatever we have been through, whatever scars and sorrows we may have experienced, I could be sure I would sit down, look at myself, my flesh and bone, and say, regardless of what's happened, "Oh, I have always loved you and will."
"Likewise, when I see your suffering, I know no matter what, you will keep loving me."
"I see how you loved in the past, and that gives me confidence. You will not love me less than that. That gives me a lot of assurance."
"Perhaps that's the whole point of suffering."
"(laugh) Agree."
"Just to prove love."

28 de septiembre
Tranquilizer

Over the phone, he sang me an aria from the Marriage of Figaro. My tears began to fall. You probably wondered if I was paying attention because I was so silent, so silent. You finished singing. Chuckling. A two-minute short aria was elaborated into a 10-minute ordeal. I was as usual moved by your voice. I am a lucky girl. I told you. Because for this past year, I have heard over a hundred songs from you.
It is also the fact that you have had many battles with your voice, from loving it to killing it, from pursuing it to abandoning it then I don't take any songs from you for granted. Never. Even when you were singing in the shower, I would often listen very attentively. I particularly remember in Yangshuo, you sang so amazingly in shower. I turned off CCTV, waiting patiently in the bed, thinking: let you always sing. Never end.
"Un cancion?" "Si".
Every day you sang me one song. Sometimes two. In the no-man mountain top, the overly-crowded Beijing West station, at Mix at our airport, outside Wynn in Macau, in the Tibetan restaurant in Shangri-la, under the Roman bridge in Spain... you have sung me so many songs. I think. Perhaps it's true. Perhaps I am special to you, and that's why you have loved me so.
Will we get a chance to care for each other beyond what we can percieve? Will we run together to a tropical paradise for three months -- where we throw away worries concerning the future and the past? Will we tour around in Europe again? Will we ever make it from Xi'an to Roma -- one of our epic journeys?
I wish this universe will be so kind to me and to you. To two souls who dare to remain playful, to make love with God. You said, "I hope I will always have a bigger capacity to love you." Amidst my many doubts of myself and life, I cling on to the little faith within -- that it's a genuine intention.
I love you my friend. We ended our call gently. Before we hanged up, I asked, "Do you think you have always loved me?" You chuckled over the other side of the world. I know what and why you chuckled. Long before we ever met, we had loved each other already. Deep inside our heart, we have always loved well. As we suffer for love in life, we know that suffering is to bring deeper love, for the past, for the future and at present.
Non più andrai, farfallone. I listen over and over again and say to myself. Non più andrai, farfallone / No more you'll wander, my amorous little amoroso, butterfly,/ No more you'll wander, my amorous little amoroso, butterfly,

23 de septiembre
一杯牛奶

Read this from Winsome's blog. It's not a joke. It's a truth. A truth of a nation with little religious, political or even ideological morals. Captalism really has built yet ruined a place.
民間說法吧：「我們在食品中完成了化學掃盲─我們從大米認識了石蠟，從活魚認識了孔雀石綠，從火腿認識了敵敵畏，從鹹鴨蛋、辣椒醬認識了蘇丹紅，從火鍋認識了福馬林，從銀耳、蜜棗認識了硫磺，從木耳中認識了硫酸銅…今天，三鹿又讓同胞們知道了三聚氰胺的化學作用：外國人喝牛奶結實了，中國人喝牛奶『結石』了。日本人的口號：一天一杯牛奶振興一個民族；中國人的口號：一天一杯牛奶震驚一個民族。」

13 de septiembre
A Pricey Pedicure

"Dora, that's your task for this week. You need to go to Essential Spa for a pricey pedicure," Claire announced, "It's for you to learn how to pamper yourself and value yourself."
That evening, after fellowshiping with the two ladies and given this task -- a pricey pedicure, I tossed and turned in bed. "You must be kidding, me? A pedicure?"
I tried days to convince myself, "Yeah, you know, you have to learn to pamper yourself." "Dora, right, making yourself pretty is right." "It's what you have never tried, and that's precisely why you should." Loads of reasons and justications I gave myself.
I checked different places; I sorta hypnotized myself; I made up the best thoughts. Okay, I will do it.
Today, as I search harder the very person within myself, to seek for integrity and honesty, you know what words come from my mouth?
That's what I am going to tell them next week when we fellowship again, when we are supposed to accomplish the loving tasks. That's what I would say.
"Ladies, you ask me to value myself and pamper myself. I really decide to do it. And that's why I have to tell you very honestly: I HATE the idea of pedicure. I decided to fuck it. I decided NOT to do it to applease you guys. I decided I needed to speak my mind, to be okay with myself, to tell you honestly what I think. For years, I learn to do things so I feel okay and accepted. I betray myself so I don't betray others. Now, I decided, I am going to betray you, to not keep my promises, not to go for the pedicure, and to tell you -- I HATE THAT VERY IDEA VERY ABSOLUTELY AND I HATE IT HATE IT HATE IT. Since you ask me to pamper myself and value myself, I decided that's how I am going to do it. I need to feel okay the way I feel and tell you honestly how I feel. I hate that and that's why I didn't go for the pedicure as I told you both I would."
How would they react? I take a deep breath. Seriously. As I am searching this life direction right now, I need first and foremost I have to be honest with myself. Without this personal integrity to the very person within, I will be unable to make any decisions and to stick to them.
A pricey pedicure really isn't the real matter. What matters is me. A pedicure or not. That's what screams out loud inside counts.

9 de septiembre
終身伴侶

鴨子，和你一生一起最多時間的，將會永遠也是你自己．那末，你要好好的愛鴨子，欣賞自己，讓自己住得快樂，支持自己，接受自己，別傷害自己，好好的和自己共存．

她常說：你我是筍盤．
我想：對，正因是筍盤，所要留給自己作自住，別輕易買掉自己． (Recalling last year in Valladolid, what Manuel said to me in the library, "Dora, never commit self-betrayal.)

9 de septiembre
活著

從Cloister踏出花園的一刻，雙目被熱烘烘的陽光煎熬著，看不到一朵花兒．一年後，我可以在草坪上走，如孩子．看水池的魚，嗅荷花香，摸含羞草，聽鳥鳴．那種快樂，我如何形容呢．是小孩確切活著的快樂．

2 de septiembre
Parenting Each Other

Dear Rose and Adam,　
Thanks for being in my life. I am grateful for you both choosing to be “guests” in our family. I pray, hope and trust Dad and I will create a loving environment for you to grow. When it’s time for you to depart, the love will accompany you wherever you go.
During my recent trip in China, you know what I have learned most? My friend told me, “Only when you love yourself will you have more you – more you filled in love – to share with others.”
Of course, sweeties, mama failed many times. Instead of taking good care of myself and loving myself, I yielded to others. In the end, I sabotaged my own well being. I became like a little monster, grumpy and ungrateful. The more I push myself to care for others with the cost of ignoring my own needs, I often turn out to be less loving and more painful to be with.
I reckon, perhaps, the greatest commandment – to love God wholeheartedly, and to love others as you love yourself – is one thing only. It’s now three kinds of love. Loving God, loving others and loving oneself – is the same one thing. We sever them. But it’s not possible. When you love God, you automatically love others and yourself. When you love others, you’re indeed loving God and loving yourself. In contrast, when you are not loving yourself, you’re very far from loving God or others.
My children, may mama learn day by day how to love myself. So I will have more me, and be more ready to love you both.
Much love,
Mama

21 de agosto
Parenting Each Other

A 2-hour conversation:
J: Are you happy this past year?
M: If I'm to bring a 2-hour-long life video to heaven, I will choose the camino last year. Have it cut and filmed into 2 hours. (he took a deep breath).
M: If I'm to invite you to be my tour guide in Paris, London, NYC...
J: Say that again? If you're to invite me to Paris, London, or NYC...?
M: No, Paris, London, NYC AND Rome, not Or. Will you accept it?
J: Yes.
J: What we have done in this year isn't only to befriend each other and love each other, but indeed to parent each other -- to give each other permission to dream and do things that our parents didn't give.
J: Do you like the movie (A Nun's Story)?
M: I prefer Secretary. (He chuckled)
M: I either have no desires or dreams; or I go extreme, playing with crazy desires and dreams.
J: Either starve or binge. (I chuckle and said, "Exactly!")
J: You know, you should really right. The way you talk is full of symbolism and you look at the world very philosophical. It's a special gift. Have you always been like that?
M: I guess so.
J: Even when you're throwing a tantrum?
M: Right, when I get mad, I can be very cynical and use metaphors to rebuke people, so they have to think a while before knowing I was actually bitchy about them.
J: Hahahaha.
J: Before I go, let me say this again. You can call anytime. That means even ten seconds from now, ten minutes from now, or ten days from me. Whenever you feel like calling, you can, okay?
M: Thanks.

15 de agosto
房子

我要一所房子．有兩個睡房的房子．一個看到小白遊艇，小島，作畫室和寫作室；另一個也是看到小白遊艇，小島，作睡房，有很大的床，白綿綿的褥子．房子如何走來，我真的不知道，但時候到子，他要按鈴，請我進去．你可以在那兒逗一個夏天，我弄你晚餐．冬天我到你家作客，呷熱可可，看Secretary．外面落雪也不怕，落雨也不怕．一年有五十二個星期，要作五十幅畫；兩個星期休息．我請你和我一起到巴黎，倫敦，巴塞隆納，紐約和我家作畫展．白天你睡，中午看看畫，晚上你作我的導遊，我們好好的吃，好好的看，好好的活，好好的做夢．你願意嗎？把你的時間拚在我的日子中．我，跪在小教堂的地上，在想，在問．

15 de agosto
Still Life

These days, I keep saying to myself, "要好好的活."
Bought a nice blouse, a new wallet, ate a cozy lunch, squandered time on canvasses, and I told myself, "要好好的活."
It has been long long time since I last felt the taste of life. A real taste. A real taste, tantalizing the taste buds of my soul and spirit. Strange yet awesome, I feel. Dreams, desires, and daring thoughts come to heart without timidity and heaviness.
An apartment with 2 bedrooms, seaview. 50 poetic paintings for exhibition. Happy health. Faith-filled daily life. Simple joy. Love, trust in love. Touch, continue to touch others and myself.
That really helps to make me wake up every single morning with a deep sense of gratitude, "Thanks God, I am alive."

11 de agosto
Volver

Give me a little time. A little time.
I am back. Body and soul and spirit and both.
If you want to kiss my lips or hold my hands
Just get on your knees.
There we meet in this celestial world
Don't worry I am well, I tell myself.
Indeed I am.
An apartment with two rooms with full seaview
Is to be my first little home.
I will invite you to this nest of mine.
Make you dinner and pour you a glass of wine.
There will be loads of paintings in the studios
You can take one as long as you ask.
You get what you want, as long as you ask.

11 de agosto
Volver

Garden Abandoned

This is a garden abandoned
Weeds shadow the presence of daily
Dead and dried leaves scatter around
Banada tree thirsts for a sip
The gardener is sitting on her porch
Staring at the passage of life
Through the rise and ebb of the sun
Couple times she tried to hold the hose
But to no avail
This is a garden abandoned
Awaiting for a complete burn
Let all things die
When the ashes seep through the soil
But to the soul of this universe
Hopefully
An Eden will come
A garden with the tree of life
The tree of wisdom
No forbidden fruit anymore
You are free to eat them all

29 de abril
When I don't write

My nephew has always loved to eat, since a little boy. Looking at him eat kicks off anyone's appetite. His fondness of food is contagious. Couple nights ago, he laid in bed and said, "I don't feel like eating."
Mom, sister-in-law, and sister all responded in the same manner: "When he doesn't want to eat, something must have gone wrong."
I have always loved to write, ever since I was a little girl. When it takes me ages to crawl to the keyboard, or notepad, when I don't even want to send an email to share, when I allow the Muse to fly past me, poetic words drain down the sewage, something, I trust, has gone wrong deeply.
Why are you downcast oh my soul?
Why are you disquiet within me?
Last night I opened my decade-un-touched anthology of Shakespeare's plays and sonnets. Between the lines in Act One of Othello I felt asleep. I woke up roughly around four in the morning, and took a quick glance of those lines again. The anthology looks like a Bible. I muttered, "Had I spent the past years studying his plays instead of the Scripture, I would have been able to recite most lines now, talking like a Shakespearean."
Three years is looming. Perhaps it's this unsaid deadline I have subconsciously placed in my head that is bugging me. No one asks me to change. (most people perhaps rather me remain what I am).
If we do get to sit by the beach this summer, to have a BBQ, I want you to be a witness. There, between your chicken wings and my sausage, your steak and my eel, your clam and my slice of bread, I will burn all my journals, page by page. Seven books in total. There, the smoke will rise and dissipate, together with things I try to evade. Will you be my witness?
Don't worry my love. I am well. You asked if I had any pressing questions. I do. Two of them:
Will you be my friend?
Do you love me?

21 de abril
Now I Understand

Your soul and mine are very old friends. I have known you for long, you for me for long, long before you laid eyes on me in Roncesvalles. I still have that albergue in my head. In my second mind. Even if that encounter did not happen, if we never sat underneath Puente de Reina and wept, even if last summer I went nowhere, you know deep inside -- you have long existed.
It's both a comfort and confusion.
God was kind. God was kind. He didn't have to show such kindness. It was me. It was me who sabotaged his blessings. God is kind. God is kind. He does not have to continue to give me such kindess. It is me; it is me, who allows to believe in such kindess.
Now I understand, what you tried to say to me.
How you suffered from your insanity. How you tried to set them free.
I know because in your pupils I see my own insanity.
In your battle, I find my own struggles.
In your fleeing, I try to free myself.
WIll I be kind to myself to trust in the goodness and blessings of life. Will I have the priviledge to know you even more, in return to know myself?
If I get so lucky to see you at the airport again, what will I do: knee and kiss the ground. The holy ground we both stand? Will I hold two dozens of red roses? I never bought flowers to give to others, except in cemeteries to dead souls or to women. You will be in your backpack, ponytail, wearing the same smile and get a bunch of red roses. What a hilarious sight, I think.
If I don't get to see you ever, will I weep? No. You have never departed my friend. Our souls are indeed old friends. Yes. I will. I will. Because I am too chicken to embrace goodness. Because I kill what I love most.
Let's make a pledge -- to never depart. A pledge that has made long before. That's why we met again. Centuries ago we made a pledge. Today, we hold hands.

14 de abril
La Mochila~!

One more month

Another 8-week-long trip is crawling slowly to my door. While walking in the woods this morning, I recalled last year, around the same period of time, I was getting myself physically and mentally ready for Spain. 3-month in the Iberian Pennisula has turned my world quite upside down. What would this upcoming sojourn do to my life? Only time will tell. Life is never quite in control. Never really.

9 de abril
My Funeral

My Funeral

Will you be
At my funeral
What will you wear
First time I finally see you in suit
Charming as the image I have long held
Will you sing me
Who knows where the time goes

Will you be
At my funeral
Will your tears drop onto my bosom
Of my body in the casket
On the dark navy blue velvet dress
You choose for me for the last time
The one I wore in one of your
Mid-summer night’s dreams

Will you be
At my funeral
It is a taboo for the gray-haired
To farewell the dark-haired they say
Will you forgive me
For the pain I have brought you
Since my cradle to grave
For the life I have taken from you
So for granted

Will you be
At my funeral
The flights from Amsterdam
From Barcelona
From Berlin
From Frankfurt
From Sidney
From London
From Johannesburg
To my casket take too long
My departure too swift
My love too shallow
The suffering too deep

Will you be
At my funeral
My Faithful Lover
To accompany me
To embark my last long journey

Though I am used to traveling alone
This time
I may need you and
You to see me off
One last time
To bid me
Godspeed


Pleasure and Pain

It isn't the fine sand or emerald water that I miss, because most beaches in Koh Samui aren't paradiscal. Too many people trying to cash in or devour a place too rapidly will in no time destroy a place in total.
Rather, it's the starry sky, Orion, the croaking of huge geckos in the middle of the night, the accompany of the affectionate Sugus, the porch overlooking the mango tree, which yielded its fruit incessantly, the cutting of grass, the idea of living in the little jungle that I miss.
It's the question regarding -- pleasure and plain -- that hovered above my head when I laid my body in the mosquito-net enveloped bed almost every night that I still wonder.
Why do human beings suffer?
I don't have a concrete answer. But I prone to think that suffering is the source of love. It's only through pain that pleasure is made apparent, and discovered.
The best gift, pathetically, I can offer anyone or anyone can offer to me is pain -- because it comes with pleasure.
"Who's to say that love needs to be soft and gentle?"
As I painted the picture about Lee / me with oil pastel, in the hot summer heat outside my room, I thought of that quote she made in the movie Secretary.
"Lee: In one way or another I've always suffered. I didn't know why exactly. But I do know that I'm not so scared of suffering now. I feel more than I've ever felt and I've found someone to feel with. To play with. To love in a way that feels right for me. I hope he knows that I can see that he suffers too. And that I want to love him."
As I returned to the daily route, to attend to many voices around me and within me, I could not help seeing truly -- people do suffer: a friend who's plagued by anxiety; an inmate whose mom just passed away; a friend whose love has decided to be with another man. All people lament, I strangely thank them; by sharing their pain, they invite me to the possibility of love. Love in a way that goes beyond softeness and gentleness. Love that is tainted with scars. Only I know if I can let go of my own defense, the very closed tight wall I build. If I can and I want, one day, I invite you to my pain as well, a feast of love.



Got back from Koh Samui for a week and had no time to set my butts on the chair to jot down some thoughts about the two-week sojourn in the forest, enveloped by palm and coconut trees, deep thoughts and wierd plans. Loads of things keep pushing and I am merely serving on the waves. Listen. Listen. Really got to calm down and listen.

Listen

He grasps both of my hands
Skin creased in soapy water
Dries them with a clean towel
Turns off the stove
Removes my apron
Declines the Earl Grey in the teapot
Also the freshly-baked brownies

Instead
He takes me to the living room
Gently rests me on the couch
Puts his arm around my shoulder
And whispers to my ear

Love, sit by me
Love, listen
To my heartbeat
I want
You all
You alone

10 de marzo de 2008
My Mentor

Conversation with my 7-year-old student, or in fact "teacher")
Dialogue 1
Me: Max, when you grow up, what would you like to become?
Max: (thinking a bit) I would like to be myself.
Me: (grinning) What an answer. True, that's all we can be.
(sadly, how often we adults try to be anyone, anything, but ourselves).

Dialogue 2
Me: (reading the Twits) What kind of nasty trick you think Mrs. Twit will do next time?
Max: Miss Dora, why they get married if they are so nasty to each other?
Me: (thinking) Max, many couples are like that indeed.
Max: Why do they get married then?
Me: (shrugging my shoulders) The truth is, grown-ups do silly things from time to time.
(not neccessary marriage, but being nasty in a marriage).
Max: (looking at me intently) Miss Dora, do you do silly things then?
Me: (grinning) I do.

Dialogue 3
Max: (out of the blue) Miss Dora, do you get a lot of kisses?
Me: Why do you ask?
Max: Do you?
Me: Nosy little boy (grinning). Finish your story first.
(work gradually phrases in, replacing the question).

9 de marzo de 2008
Your Immortal

For you. I know you've been haunted all these years. Fifteen? Sixteen? Sometimes you recoil. What's hidding behind your all fambloyant face and life. He still lives in you. You cannot wipe that immortal life out. Perhaps don't need to. I live like an bystander, witnessing a haunted house. The house is you.

My Immortal
By Evanescence

I'm so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave
'Cause your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone

These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time can not erase

Chorus:
When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
I held your hand all of these years
But you still have
All of me

You used to capitvate me
By your resonating light
Now I'm bound by the life you left behind
Your face it haunts
My once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away
All the sanity in me

These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time can not erase

Chorus
I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
And though your still with me
I've been alone all along

6 de marzo de 2008
It Is Not

It is not security. Not wedding dress. Not commitment. Not marriage. Not tie. Not possession. Not self-pity. Not sympathy. Not business exchange. Not self-gratification. Not sex. Not making promises. Not exclusive. Not condemnation. Not agenda. Not diamond. Not fears. Not rushing. Not coercion. Not replacement of loneline. Not substitute of yourself. Not a trap. Not redemption. Not an easy way out of facing life yourself. Not the past. Not the future. Not nerosis. Not fluffy feelings. Not shaping or moulding. Not a substitute of a pet dog (if you feel alone). Not unkind. Not jealousy. Not something to bring to the street like a brand name goodie. Not a check-list. Not the reproductive medium (find a sperm bank instead). Not a cultural norm. Not stuff to fill your blackhole. Not the sandbag. Not Hollywood films. Not happy ever after. Not many things.
Though I really don't know what love is. At least, I think I guess I know a little bit what IT IS NOT. Before I figure out how to love, I can begin by practising not doing things that have nothing related to love.

6 de marzo de 2008
Be not mistaken

Pain Be not mistaken
Your very presence
Serves nobody but my Beloved
You will to slay me
Into tiny morsels
Do so any moment
For its not your plot accomplished
But His
So the presence of love
Becomes more apparent
When you snatch
The final slice of dry bread from my hands
When my dry tears give you a delightful jeer
Be not proud for
Someone famish for years
Is nourished by the bread, soaked soft in tears
As she shovels it quickly to her hungry soul
As my flesh got torn and nibbled on
In pain I (try to) laugh out loud
For love is still so very near

2 de marzo de 2008
Cemetery

From 2ish to 6 this afternoon, together with two dozen people, we visited the Muslim cemetery, the Catholic cemetery, Hong Kong (former colonial) cemetery, the Parsee cemetery and ended our journey in the Jewish cemetery.
Lots of things. Lots indeed.
Faith, life, histroy, cultures. So many. What an afternoon. What an afternoon.
Before we dismissed, I put down my little bunch of Chrysanthemum, burgundy red, on the grave of a Jew. I didn't know him, but it's written he'd been a holocaust survivor, sent in his early life to three concentration camps. With a little stone I put on his grave, I laid my hand, and said a prayer, "I don't know you, but you have shown me strong will to live despite the time in the human hell. Bless me with the desire to live, no matter what life is."



Lagoon
Stone me loneliness
Stone me loneliness
Till my numbness bleeds
Around me
And around me forms
A lagoon of rose red
Till I drown
In my own blood

Sleepless last night, and I continued to read Viktor Frankl. I wrote a dozen letters, and felt very absurd. They are outcries of mine, not because the readers really need them. Existence seems lose its meaning. I am dead frightened for this ebbing desire to trust and to love.
Dreamed of attending a funeral. As I bowed once to the casket, I saw the dead body rise. Before I shouted out, "Guys, you have made a mistake, that woman isn't dead yet," I looked around and realized everyone was still mourning. I was the only one who saw the movement of the corpse. Then she climbed out of the casket, and I stopped the desire to tell people that she's not dead. She's a ghost, I thought. No one saw it. I was the only shocked one, and I remained silent. The phantom followed me in the dream, till I took the star ferry. I was not frigtened, but numb. Finally the day broke, I woke up. It's just a dream. Or is it not? Who's dead? Who's alive? Am I dead? Am I alive? What's wrong Dora. What's wrong?

29 de febrero de 2008
A Third World Putto

My first oil painting class -- what a redeeming experience.
Four hours putting paints on the canvas -- I had experienced rarely in my life a time I did'n't think about a thing. My mind is constantly pondering -- on people, places, plans, God, thoughts, sorrows... and when I was waiting for the bus home after the lesson, I said, "Wow, finally there's a thing that takes my mind off."
Perhaps it's so new to me that all I wanted is to put the photo on the canvas.
My first picture is like a Renaissance putto of a third world child. The Cambodian child was not very meticulously drawn. Hence, the putto-like chubby kid was painted. But I like her.
"You never will draw this same again, that's why I wouldn't want to change it. It's your first painting and worths keeping," the eccentric yet wonderful teacher said.
I look at my third world putto and chuckled. "She looks so chubby," I laughed. The teacher chuckled, "They say the first child you ever draw is gonna be the kind of child you're to have."
It was a wonderful evening. I never thought I was a oil painting type. But the truth is oil painting is such a redeeming medium. You can screw up and the painting is still workable. You move your paintbrush a little, the blemishes become integrated and be part of the picture again. Mistakes can be covered and add layers to the pictures. That sounds great. What a way life is like such as well. Mistakes, a wrong move, a lousy application -- aren't totally lost. They somehow get recruited, and form the rich layer of life, called life.

25 de febrero de 2008
Four Gatherings and My funeral

Four gatherings took place this weekend. After a week of labor, it's always nice to sit with friends, just experience life together, to moan a bit, to chuckle a bit.
Uncle Russ' Chai Tai Freeze wasn't too sweet. I love 5pm of Saturday -- the time denotes the end of a wweek of work. W had her regular coffee, and we talked. Smiled. Laughed. "Do you want any changes in your life?" she asked. "No, first time in life, I feel like I have a garden pretty much the way I want it. Instead uprooting what I had, what I did in the past, all I want is to grow the seedlings deeper. You may not see roses, or lilies or daffodils as yet. But there seedlings are there. I want their root to grow deeper and their leaves and stalks stronger. Friends I love I want to love deeper. Painting I start I want to paint more. Travels, business or leisure I plan I want to enjoy more." Before we parted, we took out our diary and marked out next meeting. "Let's do something fun, go to a bar we never been to, dress up ways we never tried."
45 minutes later, I was at the Bull's, a restaurant in Apleichau, never been to. The owner was extremely nice. His company outweighed everything. He even gave a pack of Salem to my friends, as a token of kindness. He shared with us all the years he ran discos, and bars, and karaokes. I put my kids to the States to finish their graduate studies, eight years. At the graduation, my son thanked God for it. I saw his eyes roll. A father so much wanted a sense of appreciation, but his hope drained down the chute as his son gave gratitude to God instead. That put me a deep thought, the only Christian at the dinner table. On the side hanged a couplets. The upper one says, (in Chinese) "Rarely do people bring their parents along; more often they come with their sons. The rain drop down from the veradah, never the other way round."
How much do we really honor our parents, I wonder. True, people put so much love to their offbrings, not parents, let alone grannies.
After the church service, I met YJ at the CC canteen. "You have not changed a bit, still carefree," she said.
Last not least, CR at Delifrance. Hours dashed by very quickly, we promised each other to rise above fears and labor in love and trust in the goodness of life.
Four gatherings: a friend I met 7 years ago in a hospital; high school buddies; a room mate at university; and an ex-colleague in an international school. Life weaves itself in amazing way, I come to think about it. My years of exile around planet earth still offer me, kindly, these friends. I love them I do. Better I want to love them more and more. Four gatherings.
In my funeral, who will come, that's what I wonder. If life permits, I want to have a "living"funeral. Before I die, I want it happen. But how much control do we have for life? Who will come to my funeral? Who will remember me still after I die? With death looming, I have only one goal -- to burn my life like a candle burnt in both ends. Brightly it shines.

22 de febrero de 2008
From Scratch

Yesterday I met the teacher. On the phone, he spoke in accented Cantonese. I wonder he was probably born somewhere else. My first impression of him was quite nice. A rather eccentric person, extremely shy. I think I would like this teacher, because he's not like a teacher at all. I feel quite excited to learn painting from scratch. At least, there's something I am doing -- not because I have to for living, not because I want to for services, but simply something what a kid likes to do.
Who knows where the time goes. I listened to it repeatedly unless it hurts. I need to face the pains and the fears, till they go through me thoroughly. Once they all seep through me, I can rise above them.

19 de febrero de 2008
Making Mistakes. Dealing with Decisions

Decisions abhor sometimes, though they are supposed to be fun. What's better than having options in life? The gelato stores in Venice dazzle your eyes and brain by the many flavors they offer. Comparing to an ice-cream store that sells only one flavor, Venice should be more preferable.
Sad but true, we have slowly lost the child-like innocence in making choices. Where to live, to buy a condo or not to buy, to break up or not to break, to tie the knot or not to, to change a job or not to -- have become to life-threatening choices. We fear one move, a wrong move, will plunge us to the despair of life.
I wonder if God is up there chuckling. The things we blow up so big -- career choices, marital decisions, life direction what not -- are gelato store to God. We're free to choose any. Plus, they are there to enjoy, not to paralyze us.
Years ago, during a short trip in Bangladesh, we stayed in a village called Tala awhile. A small village. We, spoiled by clean distilled water, became the preys of many villagers after we finished a bottle of water (better say, the bottles became their preys).
Thirty so people gazed at our last drop, and flocked like hyenas to grab the bottle in our hands.
At first, we first a little annoyed. Then a little funny. And finally I felt a little cynical, and even melancholy.
In them, I saw me.
We prey for the empty bottles just like them. The difference is -- our bottles are nicely wrapped up and renamed -- career aspirations, life partner, soulmate, wealth, prestige, fame, success, recognition, love.
We crave for them, not less desparately than the villagers in Tala.
Up there, I trust, God is constantly smiling at His children -- so caught up by the empty bottles (manifested in whatever forms), so fearful in living life freely, so worrisome in accumulating things and fame, so trying to secure life, so incapable of being playful.
Perhaps, after all, it's a child-like faith we all need.
A child led into a gelato store.
No kid will worry too much about choosing gelato. Neither will s/he believe a wrong gelato will make her life miserable later on. More, no kids will come up with business plan walking in a gelato store, or worry if the ice-cream is too costly, if it makes them fat, if they should be health conscious.
They have a cone, enjoy it, smile, and if nice kids, give thanks.
Alas, why just walk in the store and stare, pick one and savor.

19 de febrero de 2008
Were you in Hong Kong

Spent Valentine's Day with a hospital chaplain and some old friends whom I used to visit patients with. It's been a year and a half since I met them again; after the training course, few of us continued to visit patients.
Not having seen them or heard from them all these times. That's what happened what I met them tonight.
Volunteer A: Dora, where have you been? Were you in HK?
I: (frowned) Yes, I have been in HK.
Volunteer B (who arrived slightly after): Where have you been? Were you working somewhere else?
I: No, I have always been in HK (Volunteer A laughed).
Volunteer C (who arrived after A and B): Hey Dora, were you out of town all these days?
I: What is written on my forehead? Does it say I have been out of HK?
ABC: (all laughed)
I: Have you guys been looking for me?
ABC: None.
I: So what made you think I have been out of HK.
B: But when I first met you, I already felt you're like a "roamer".
(Shortly after, the chaplain arrived)
Chaplain: Dora, it's so hard to find you, are you working somewhere else now, not in HK?
ABC: (all laughed) Hahaha. Everyone thinks the same.
ABC: here comes Volunteer D, let's see if she would ask the same question.
D: Hey Dora, did you return from the Philippines?
I: What made you think I went to the Philippines?
D: I thought you went to work there?
I: Nope, I never been there in my life?
ABC: (LOL) Hahaha, worst than us.
I: Well, when we did hospital visit in the past, I had one patient whom I visited from the Philippines. But not in a million years have I thought of going there to work.
ABCD plus chaplain all laughed. I chuckled. Really, what makes people think that way? Do I seem like a roamer indeed? Am I so bad at keeping in touch?

9 de febrero de 2008
On the Third Day of New Year

On the third day of Chinese New Year my True Love gave to me: a 4-hour-long fun, awesome, sing-along, friendship-building hike from Sai Wan to Wong Shek in Sai Kun Peninsula; another 4-hour-long loving wonderful catch-up time with Helma, my prayer partner; a day full of joy.
30 minutes it took for me to get back from Sai Kung to Causeway Bay. I thought of many things: my loving friends, my conversations with Helma, Sai Kung, the city I live in, my boss' call -- and I wonder, "Will I want to leave this city?"
Probably not. But who knows. Life is sometimes out of my own expectations.

8 de febrero de 2008
冷

嚷著:還要冷多久？六月生的我，骨子裡是夏天．冷了，人像洩了氣的汽球．儘管我不懶床，但起床後人是呆呆的．披著兩條綿被，穿上兩條褲子，想著昔日在壩上的晚上．很冷很冷．很低落．低落可能與工作，孤獨和困難無關，可能只是因為冷．二十多歲的我，一鼓傻勁隻身到北方的村莊去，是傻的，人生有多少回可以傻的機會呢．不妨活得狠一點．倒頭睡了十五小時，肚子痛得要命．原來，一個小病，什麼計劃也談不上．活著，要珍惜．有人，要愛惜．死亡，這樣近，為什麼你還想太多？

6 de febrero de 2008
La nocha ultima

The eve of year mickey.
I want to tell you couple things; but I guess they will get lost in the Indian sea. Better let them be close to me, lest they should drift wilfully and hopelessly.
How's your silent retreat, I wonder. Wondering is what I am most capable of doing, in the midst of this friendship; perhaps other than wondering, I can utter a prayer.
Dad is in the hospital. The doctor allows him to take "vacation". Doug is in town, the family living in Tibet. We had coffee this afternoon, and talked about what'd happened to them in the past three years in the 3000-strong-meter home. I tentatively offered to spend a month there with their family. Tibet, finally, it's Tibet. In the IFC mal, while hurrying home for new year eve dinner, I read into Sid and Cat. We chit-chatted a bit. How kind they're to me: still friends.
4 hours of lesson; one hour of coffee; some time of pondering; made dinner (mom prepared, I wrapped up) -- that's more or less how I ended the year of piglet.
I am a dragon. They say dragon is fierce, ambitious, daring, and hot-tempered. I am a mellow dragon. A marsh-mellow dragon. If I could choose an animal in the zodiac, I will choose: whale.
The year of the whale.
Happy new year. I tremble thinking of this year: it's gonna be a year that blows my mind off. It's. I am ready for the things that no one can be ready for.
Every morning, I want to ask the little bird chirrping on my shoulder: "Are you ready today, if it's your final day?"


Who are you reading out there? You know you don't have to. I suppose you do, under the premise that you want to. Thank you. Thank you for giving my scribble a home. Those words, out of my mind and my womb, are orphans. They are without parents. Well, I am. I was. Once born, they are scattered around in this vast space, without a home. And in corner you click into and give them -- my brain children -- a meaning to exist.
I took number 15 up to the peak. The peak. It's the Victoria Peak. My peak. I was born in this island. I lived my life, more or less, in this side of the Island. The peak, how little do I know her. I circled around it, half way, and got into someone's private road. Shame. A road is owned. I carried the little gifts, plus the pathetic T-shirt, and roamed down the hill. Do I care? Do you care? In the midst of joy and satisfaction, I could not help being captured at times by melancholy.
Leah and Rachel, I listened to them this morning. Every love has to find its home. It's only safe residence is the bosom of the Divine. Do you know? If you don't. Don't put that love anywhere for one day you will be devastated. Perhaps, that's the way it goes sometimes.
Eva Cassidy has been singing her lullaby to my ears. I stared at the seaview of my room. How could I have been so blind to such sublime view. This public housing estate is right next to some most expensive apartments in HK. I am lucky I guess.
At times I still toy with the idea of getting a round-the-world ticket, and throw myself to an exile. Don't ask me where I will go. Don't ask me where I come from. Where I go and where I come from is the same place -- me.
You know, there are more than perhaps 20 boats/ferries/ocean liners pass by the sea every minute. They go somewhere. I go somewhere.
When I say I love you, I don't say it lightly. Love isn't something light. It never is, and never will be. Today in church, before the service, you know, I have one urgency in heart.
For my life, my life, you know what I want to do? I want to burn it, burn it, burn it. Like a candle, I want to burn both ends, and make it as bright as possible. That's my love. That's my love. Not that I am loving. Not that I am different. Not that I am compassionate. Rather, when someone's freely given a big dose of divine love, one seems can't help.
Forgive me if my love isn't love, but desire and domination. Shame on me.
I still scribble some verses, and fear they are blasphemous. They are, probably, but afterall, I have to be myself, and I cannot worry too much what others say and think. One day I die, all left behind perhaps is nothing more than a few books. People will forget about it. And why should I worry so much now.

Art

I am my Writer’s lyric
He stares at the twilight at length
The home-bounding birds
Swirling in the sky
Waiting for me to be born
Out of His heart

I am my Composer’s lyrics
He hums over me
While promenading the narrow alleys
When toddlers turn back and throw him a fascinating gaze
He smiles at me, and proud of my company

I am my Painter’s canvas
He dips His brushes into shade, sensitivity and serenity
And pours His Spirit onto me
To create another spirit
A kindred
Metamorphosing
The spirit of the onlookers of this little gallery

I am my Groom’s prayer
He kneels on the dirt
Under the juniper
Murmuring me
Moans of ecstasy

I am Yours
You are Mine
One day when I see You
Face to Face
I wish
To hear
You say
You’re just like Me

29 de enero de 2008
"There is a way to be good again".

There is a way to be good again
…
When He first made you
He said it was very good

There is a way to be good again
…
When you're brought into an enormous mansion
And invited to take all things

There is a way to be good again
…
When everything you do is okay
Even if you gain ten pounds and become insane
Even if you kill a nation and profane His name

There is a way to be good again
…
When what you fear most in life is to live
When there’s nothing to give you hopes and desires

There is a way to be good again
…
When you realize you're intrinsically good
And all the mess is covered
When you don't have to do a damn thing to earn
What you can never earn

There is a way to be good again
…
That you go for an exile in Serbia with Maslova
That you fly to Kabul for Shorab
-- be you the redeemer or redeemed

There is a way to be good again
There Is. THERE IS.
He is. HE IS.



How far, deep, profound, and real can redemption come on planet earth? How redemptive love and action can be? How can one rise above shame and guilt feelings? How can one face one's sinfulness in the light of another childlike sainthood?
How can one chase a fallen kite?
The Kite Runner is less promising as I could have wished. Nonetheness, it's a good movie. How many Amirs are out there? How many Amirs are living within us? How far will we go to redeem what we have messed up and trampled?
The movie reminds me a bit of Tolstoy's Resurrection. Dmitri Ivanovich Neklyodov, anothe Amir jan, who wanted to redeem his past. Are Sohrab or the postitute/ maid, the objects of redemption or the means of the redemption? Whatever it is, the question of redemptive love is worth pondering.


Regalo de Dios

We sit
In a circle
Each with a gift on our laps

Music spins
Gifts are passed
Around
Around
And around

Music stops
I have yours
You mine
In our hands

Untie the ribbon
Gently
Open the box
Gingerly

We both find
A mirror
Inside

22 de enero de 2008
Addiction

The Divine nectar
Is worst
Than heroin
Each shot brings to higher ecstasy
Lures for a heavier dose

The best part
– Such obsession and addiction
Isn’t something to be ashamed of

Rather
A feast of love
That I tug at my friends’ arms
To ask them join
have them hooked
Hopefully
Shamelessly